Chapter 21 – The Forest of Affliction

Kell rode with Elita, the fey light enough to share the pony’s back with the gnome. His thick fur cloak made him look much broader than he truly was. As Tara had noted before, his limbs were absurdly skinny, and the hands that grasped the pony’s reins looked almost frail.

There was something about him that set Tara on edge. She couldn’t place what it was. It had been a very long time, years even, since she had started a new character in Swords of Allerion. Most of her current characters were advanced, with the arrival at Regan harbor and Berga’s quest far behind them.

As they rode, Tara couldn’t help reminiscing about the first time she had downloaded Swords of Allerion. All the kids at school had been talking about the game. Those teenage years had been tough, and Tara had believed the old line that fantasy was just an escape. It was fun in movies, but she wasn’t really interested in games.

But then one particular day, when she was fifteen, she had wanted to escape more than anything. And there that silly ad for Swords of Allerion had been, featured on the homepage of her console. Downloading the game had been an impulse, almost an act of defiance against the world she knew. She hadn’t realized then how much bigger Allerion truly was.

It wasn’t an escape. It was an opportunity. For the first time, Tara had the chance to engage with people who didn’t judge her no matter how outlandish her clothes were or how weird her hair looked. If she was in a bad situation, she could fight her way out of it. That was when Tara started to realize that there actually was a possibility of winning in the real world too, even when the odds against you looked impossible.

She started to look at the world less like an arena of constant defeat, and more like a challenge to be faced. Hey, if Acalon could do it with his background, or little Elita the gnome with her disadvantages, why couldn’t a skinny human in South Carolina be a hero, too?

People who described fantasy as an escape didn’t really understand the complexity of imagination. It wasn’t an escape. It was an expansion.

But Tara could honestly say she was tired of the cold.

She wasn’t sure which way they were heading. Everything looked so different on the ground instead of from the third-person perspective she had been used to in-game. She didn’t have access to a map either. Of everything else she had enjoyed in Swords of Allerion, Tara was really missing the map.

But her companions didn’t seem lost at all. Wanderer’s Bane was a familiar location to them, and Tara was glad that at least someone knew where they were going.

“Hold on,” she said suddenly. “Can we stop here a minute? Those are red pinecones. They’re really valuable for creating fire bombs.”

“Excuse me?” said Elita, astonished. “Fire bombs?”

“If we find a tar pit and some sulfur deposits, we can actually make a bomb,” Tara continued. She was delighted to finally be remembering some of the game recipes. “We can definitely take out some of the necromancer’s minions that way.”

Ingredient Name

Effects

Remedies / Poisons

Red Pinecone

Fire damage

In combination with tar and sulfur, red pinecones can be used to create Fire Bombs, dealing 7+ damage to enemies.

Elita exchanged a baffled look with Horon, as if she were looking for assurance that this was how the Last Hero was supposed to talk.

“You have the strangest way of expressing yourself, Tara,” said the gnome. And more hastily, “Be careful! You ought to know that red pinecones always ignite if they’re broken off the stem too fast. You don’t want to set yourself on fire.”

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“It seems Tara MacQueen has some gaps to her unusual stock of knowledge,” observed Kell the fey. “Most curious, indeed.”

“Not really,” muttered Tara, blowing on her singed fingers. “But at least being burned is a different experience from being frozen solid.”

Kell laughed. “I like your perspective,” he said. “If only we could all be so, ah—philosophical.”

“I’d advise against packing these with the rest of our provisions,” warned Wenrik, glancing doubtfully at the pinecones in Tara’s arms.

“They’re safe now that they’re no longer attached to the tree,” Tara assured him. “Being jostled won’t set them off. I used to carry them around all the time.”

“Did you?” said Elita. “In your…visions?”

“That’s right.” Tara kicked herself inwardly. “The visions seem so real, you know. I get confused sometimes.”

“It must be very hard for you,” said Kell, “this feeling of belonging and not belonging. Do you know where you were born, Tara MacQueen?”

“Just Tara,” said Tara. “I—I’m not sure.”

She couldn’t tell them about her apartment in South Carolina. Could she? She needed more time to figure out how to frame the world she came from. The last thing she wanted was to upset these people she had come to consider friends. And her last interaction with Acalon, her first sincere attempt to tell someone the truth, had been a disaster.

The woods thickened as they rode. Tara would have left a marker in this area if she were playing the game—red pinecones were plentiful. It was just a shame she couldn’t find the other ingredients as well.

“They call it the Forest of Affliction,” said Kell suddenly. “These woods. Do you see the trees around you, burned black and thin with time? Once in a thousand years, they say, this forest blooms with fire. All who live in it, if there is any life left to be found, perish. That is why it is so silent. Nothing dares live here now except the wind, and the trees themselves. There is a legend—”

“Enough of your legends,” interrupted Horon. “We don’t need ghost stories on top of everything else.”

The fey was briefly silent, as if Horon’s objection didn’t offend but stun him. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Tara was surprised by the genuine note of hoarseness in his voice, as if he were hurt. “I forget sometimes that we’re not all used to ghosts.”

“We should be out of the forest soon,” said Elita, shooting a reproving look at Horon. “Then we’ll all have enough ghosts to hold us. Why don’t you tell us something cheerful, World Weaver? Something about the making of this world, perhaps? I enjoy the songs of the Maker's first light. My mother used to sing them when I was in my cradle.”

“Ah,” murmured Kell. “Yes. I enjoy the first light as well.”

Tara half-listened to the fey speak. Her mind was still on the wood around them, especially as the day dimmed towards evening, and the sunset burned red over the black trees like the memory of flame.

They made camp, a subdued, hushed group. Their supper was frugal and mostly silent. Horon divided their meal evenly between them, making certain that everyone had an equal portion. As the moons rose, Wenrik, Horon, and Elita stretched on their unrolled blankets, allowing Tara to keep first watch.

Kell was huddled in his cloak. He held his hurdy-gurdy tightly in his arms against the cold.

“Here,” said Tara. “Take my blanket. I don’t need it right now.”

The fey’s glance flicked towards her in surprise. His amber eyes were surreal in the dim light from the moon.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am content. But it is a kind offer.”

Tara nodded, returning to her watch. The shadows in the woods were stark and straight, and with no wind to disturb them, she could have imagined they were the only living beings for miles.

“Is it true?” she asked quietly. “What you said about the fire?”

Kell glanced at Horon’s back. The Feyman was gently snoring.

“I believe so,” the fey whispered. “There is some truth in every dream.”

“What legend were you about to tell us?” asked Tara. “I’d like to know.”

The fey seemed to consider. After a moment, he said, “It is said by some that these trees have a life of their own. That they were not always trees, but are now the remnants of a long-forgotten people. This land has always been torn by conflict. They say hundreds of people sought refuge here but were pursued by a merciless king and slaughtered. They say that because of this horrible deed, the Maker caused the bodies of the dead to become the trees we see today, twisted, ashen. The very first fire that spread through the forest destroyed the king who had murdered them.”

Kell shook his head, holding his instrument closer. “It is a cruel story,” he murmured. “Perhaps your friend is right to dislike it. But it reminds that no matter how dark the world becomes, there is justice.”

Tara shivered. She picked up her blanket and wrapped herself tightly, wishing they could have risked making a fire but understanding that this was probably the most dangerous place in Allerion to do so.

Did she remember a Forest of Affliction from Swords of Allerion? There had been a forest like this, but Tara couldn’t remember it being named or the legend associated with it.

“You must have a story of your own, Tara MacQueen,” said the fey softly. “You said earlier that you weren’t sure where you were born. I’ve heard enough tales in my day to know when someone is spinning one. You do know, don’t you, where you come from? Why won’t you tell us?”

Tara stiffened, alarmed.

“Is it so horrible?” mused Kell. “My people’s past is riddled with discord and strife. Some consider our nature—our need to feed on others’ lives—too dangerous. They do not understand, so they fear us. But we mean no harm to anyone. I believe I share that with you, Tara. You aren’t here to harm but to help. Why should you be ashamed of your heritage?”

Tara didn’t trust herself to answer. It was the first time anyone had expressed this kind of interest in her, and welcomed whatever strangeness might challenge them in her answer. She was surprised but also touched. And she thought, looking into the sallow fey’s keen eyes, that she would try to explain.

“If you don’t like what you hear,” she said, “will you accept it as another story? Like a dream? Because…” She wasn’t sure how to say, Because I don’t want to scare you. “Because sometimes the truth is too incredible for me to believe myself.”

“Of course,” said the fey. “Let us both be world weavers, if we must.”

Tara glanced at her sleeping companions. “And don’t tell the others. Promise? I don’t want them to think I’m insane or an alien or something.”

Kell’s laugh was muted, his fingers sliding over the keys of his hurdy-gurdy without pressing, as if he were remembering the rhythm of a song.

“I promise,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”